


The Mystery Writer

by FionaDunn



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminal Minds Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Attempted Kidnapping, Behavioral Analysis Unit (Criminal Minds), Criminal Minds Big Bang, F/M, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29368428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FionaDunn/pseuds/FionaDunn
Summary: Drawn into a BAU case when an unsub starts killing people based on her books, Tyche Stuart is at a loss.  She's kept as low a profile as possible since leaving the FBI academy weeks before finishing.  When Hotch brings her in to consult, she jumps into the investigation head first and into the path of Spencer Reid. Can they figure out who is recreating her fictional murders in time?Starts during season 3
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Haley Hotchner, Jennifer "JJ" Jareau/William LaMontagne Jr., Spencer Reid/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

#  Chapter 1

“It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.” — Arthur Conan Doyle, A Scandal in Bohemia

**Alexandria, Virginia**

It must be a Tuesday, Tyche thought as her eyes popped open. Rolling over she groaned. 7:30 AM stared back at her in friendly green numbers. She lay there for a moment trying to determine what exactly had woken her up and regretting the night out. Then she heard it. Thunk Thunk Thunk. Reluctantly, she pulled herself from the warmth of her sheets, shuddering as her feet hit the cold wood-effect vinyl floors of her bedroom, in an attempt to locate the noise. 

Tyche shuffled along as the thunk grew louder, like one of those alarm clocks left alone too long. Her eyes adjusted to the lack of light in the apartment slowly as she approached her front door. The outline was easy to make out thanks to the illumination. Tycfhe reached out as she neared the door finding the cool metal of the deadbolt and turning it. Schick! Her other hand found the door knob turning it; allowing the door to creak open. 

She was met by a fist poised to knock. It took a few long moments for her eyes to adjust to the bright light of the hallway, but soon she could see the two men in front of me in navy blue. Something clicked in her brain. She was standing in front of two of the city’s finest in a ratty Chicago bears t-shirt and a pair of Batman boxers. Great, just great.

“Are you Tyche Stuart,” one of the officers asked. 

“Yes,” Tyche said, looking back and forth between the two mens faces. The pair’s expressions were grim. One was fiddling with what appeared to be a class ring on his finger. He was anxious about something. Logic dictated that it was likely about whatever brought the pair to the door of her apartment. The other was clenching and unclenching his jaw. 

“Would you please come down to the station with us ma’am,” class ring asked. 

“For what reason,” Tyche asked. 

“We’d rather let the detective in charge explain ma’am,” clencher said. 

“Well, please come in for a moment. I’ll put on some more appropriate clothing and then we can head out,” Tyche said, opening the door wider and stepping back to allow the two men entry into her small one-bedroom apartment. She walked quickly back to her bedroom and picked up the first relatively clean pair of jeans she came across. Reaching into her closet, Tyche pulled out a black tank top and her black leather jacket. She grabbed a black hair claw from her dresser, sweeping her shoulder length brown hair into a quick twist. 

When she returned to the main room of the apartment, Clencher and Classring were loitering by the front door. 

“Alright boys, lets go,” Tyche said drowsily, slipping into a pair of black flats. 

The pair said nothing as they escorted her downstairs to an idling police car. Class ring opened the door for her, while clencher walked around to the drivers side. 

“Officers Smith and Kaminsky, reporting in. We’ve got the writer,” clencher said. Tyche buckled herself into the back, watching clencher. He was probably Kaminsky. Class Ring looked like a farm boy, the school name pointed to Iowa or maybe Nebraska. Class Ring was new on the force, uneasy in a new city. Kaminsky, however, has a homegrown boy. He drove because he knew the streets. There was probably a sports team tattoo on his arm beneath the jacket sleeve. 

Class Ring ducked into the front passenger seat ready for the short ride to whatever station they were heading to. 

“Ma’am,” he asked, glancing at Tyche in the rearview. 

“Officer Smith,” she said. The officer jumped in his seat. Kaminsky shot his partner a look that said, shut the hell up probie. 

“I just wanted to ask, when’s the next book coming out? My wife is a huge fan,” he asked. 

“Honestly Officer, her guess is as good as mine,” Tyche said, “I’ll send a signed copy to your precinct when it’s released.” 

“That is very generous of you ma’am,” Officer Smith said, “she’ll be thrilled.” 

Officer Kaminsky rolled his eyes.

“Not a fan of mystery novels, Officer Kaminsky” Tyche asked. 

“No Ma’am. I see enough of that at work. I don’t need to read about it in my free time,” Officer Kaminsky said. 

“Fair enough,” Tyche shrugged, “Want to tell me why you pulled me out of bed? I was having a wonderful blackout” 

Kaminsky returned his focus to the empty street in front of them. 

As they neared the imposing concrete building, Tyche noticed a larger number of black SUVs than would be normally in front of a police station. A small group of reporters were gathered by the main entrance waiting to ambush whoever went in or out of the station. 

“ Fellas, would it be alright if we go in the super secret way? I’d prefer to stay away from the leeches,” Tyche asked. 

Office Kaminsky rolled his eyes, “Those were our orders ma’am.” 

As they pulled around the back of the building into the lot reserved for police vehicles, Tyche took a count of FBI vehicles parked there. Four seemed a bit excessive for whatever this was. 

Officers Kaminsky and Smith helped her out of the back and into the police station. As they walked, she surveyed the faces of the beat cops and detectives. The pair led her towards the conference room, its blinds pulled tight. A man was standing in front of the door. Tall, in a dark navy suit. His black hair cropped close to his head, cellphone at his ear. 

Tyche did a double take. She must still be sleeping or hallucinating. There was no way he was here right now. 

“Aaron,” she asked. The man turned, the phone falling to his side. His eyes narrowed as he recognized her. 

“Stuart, It's good to see you. This way,” Aaron said, opening the door to the conference room. 

Tyche surveyed the room,it looked like all the main BAU players were in the room. Interesting. 

“Everyone, meet Tyche Stuart. Tyche, meet SSAs Morgan, Prentiss, Rossi, our press liason Jennifer Jareau and Dr. Spencer Reid,” Hotch said. 

The team looked at her quizzically. “Tyche Stuart, the mystery writer,” Rossi asked, “didn’t I run into you at a convention several years back. 

Tyche smirked, “Book Expo, 2006. You were promoting your last book. I was promoting…” 

“The Inkwell Murders, 375 pages, book six in your Biltmore Series,” the youngest member of the team, Dr. Reid, finished for her. Tyche gave him a small smile and a nod. 

“Right,” Rossi said, “the one about the serial killer. The autograph line was so long it wrapped around the ballroom twice.” 

“Its lovely to meet you all, but can somebody maybe explain why I was pulled out of bed so early, and where the coffee is,” Tyche asked. 

“Sorry for the cloak and dagger, but we have a situation,” Hotch said motioning to the white board in the corner of the room. 

Tyche’s gaze turned to the board. The faces of six people stared back at her. Crime scene photos appeared under each headshot. She noted the inkwell, the letter opener, and an apothecary bottle in the crime scene photos beneath the headshots. “Fuck,” she whispered. 

“There is a crazed Biltmore Mystery fan out there recreating the murders,” Tyche positied, “That's why I’m here. That's why the BAU and the press are here.” 

Hotch nodded, “six victims in six weeks. Theres a good chance that the unsub has tried to contact you, probably several times” He handed a folder to Tyche. She opened it and found several pictures of letters. Several had her autograph on them, others looked like they were dedications she'd written in copies of her books. 

“If you don't mind, we’d like you to sit down with Reid and go through your fan mail. See if anything sticks out to you,” Hotch said. 

“Of course, anything I can do to help,” Tyche said, “but my publisher has my fan mail.” 

“They brought what they had over yesterday,” Hotch said, “I’ll show you where the coffee is.” 

******** 

“So that is the world famous mystery writer,” Prentiss asked as the door to the conference room swung close behind Hotch and Tyche. 

“Is it just me, or is something off about her,” Morgan asked, looking back at the team. 

“She was studying to join the BAU. Gideon’s prized pupil,” Spencer said, “He told me once that she could beat him at chess.” 

“She’s a profiler,” Prentiss asked confused. 

“Never finished the training program,” Rossi said, “quit a few weeks before Gideon was going to recommend her.” Spencer and Prentiss looked at Rossi quizzically. 

“Just because I was retired, doesn’t mean I stopped talking to Gideon,” Rossi said, waving his hands in a dismissive gesture. 

“I remember meeting her once,” Morgan said, “she’d come into the office to shadow Gideon one day. The girl had some good insights.” 

Tyche reappeared in the doorway, a cup of steaming blackness in her hand. “Shall we play a game, Dr?” Spencer nodded, tucking a loose curl behind his ear and pulling a stack of letters from a large box on the floor.

Tyche busied herself with putting on gloves and pulling a stack of letters from the box. She silently cursed herself for not picking up her mail more frequently. Fan mail was her least favorite part of her life, other than ComicCon. She sorted the letters into three piles: crazies, normals, and gifts.

“Morgan, you and I will head over to the latest crime scene. Prentiss, Rossi, talk with Patricia Lewis’ family when they get here and start looking at victimology. JJ talk to the reporters out front. See if you can get them to back off,” Hotch ordered from the doorway. 

The four BAU members filed out of the conference room, heading off to accomplish their tasks. 

As the door closed, Spencer glanced at Tyche from over the letter he was scanning. 

“Is it true that you beat Gideon at chess,” he asked, discarding what looked like fan art. Tyche 

“I beat him once,” Tyche smiling at the memory, “He was distracted, talking about a new student, 20 year old wunderkind from CalTech. Kid was fast tracked for the BAU if they could pass their firearm assessments.” She pulled a handful of letters from the shopping bag and began to sort them into piles based on handwriting and stationary. 

Spencer glanced up from the letter he was skimming. “He mentioned me,” he asked. 

Tyche nodded, “A lot those last few weeks I was at Quantico.”

“Why did you leave,” Spencer asked, flipping through more letters. Tyche focused on the letters in front of her. Spencer noted the way her grip tightened on the envelopes in her hands, and how she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. She really didn’t want to talk about whatever had caused her abrupt departure from the FBI.

“Did you know that the highest volume of fan mail received by a private citizen in one year was 900,000 letters to Hank Aaron in 1974,” Spencer asked, turning another letter over in his hands. 

“Oh, must have been the year he broke Babe Ruth’s Home Run record,” Tyche said, reading through a standard- please help me with my novel letter. 

“You’d be correct,” Spencer said, “According to reports about a third of the letters were hate mail for that very reason.” 

“Speaking as someone who received a lot of fan mail, I can attest to the fact that a lot of it is actually hate mail,” Tyche answered, placing the letter she was reading a one of the neat piles in front of her.

Spencer reached down for another stack of letters. He wrinkled his nose at the fermented order that drifted up from the box of mail. Tyche took a shallow breath, turning her gaze from her stacks of letters to the box. Dropping what she was holding to the table, Tyche dropped to her knees and started digging through the box. Unable to reach the bottom, Tyche upended the box, dumping the contents to the floor. 

While letters fell slowly to the floor, a priority mail envelope dropped with a thunk. Tyche picked it up, looking at it nervously. The fermented smell was stronger now, with an undercurrent of sweet. She had received gifts from fans before, but something told her that this was not a crochet doll of James Biltmore. 

Spencer looked over at the packet in Tyche’s hands quizzically, like he was doing a calculation in his head. Carefully, he took the package from her hands, flipping it over several times. The address had been printed on labels available at any office supply store, no obvious return address. The post mark indicated the letter had been mailed three days ago from Spotsylvania County, VA. 

Carefully, Spencer pulled the small tab that opened the envelope, pointing it away from him. The smell of body order and rot now permeated the room. Tyche reached for the tissue box, extracting a few and laying them gentry on the table. 

Spencer tipped the envelope, pointing the opening toward the tissues. Roll of paper fell out, soaked with blood. 

Tyche could see the tip of a fingernail, painted blood red, poking out from the center of the roll. 


	2. Chapter 2

Tyche swayed on the spot. Normally the sight of blood or death wouldn’t have swayed her. She’d spent the better part of a decade writing about death, talking to corners,and riding along with detectives. Something about a serial killer using her books in such a way was sick. The finger was just the macabre cherry on the death sundae. 

“The unsub has expanded from just copying the murders to other details of the stories,” Tyche said, “Biltmore’s sent victims’ fingers wrapped in taunts in Inkwell.” 

“Chapter 10,” Spencer said, carefully peeling the layers of paper from the finger. Tyche shot Reid a confused look before walking to the door of the conference room 

“Can I get CSI in here,” she called. A detective scurried over with an evidence bag. The young man gagged as he entered the conference room. Spencer had successfully extracted the finger from it’s wrapping. The wrapping was carefully spread out on more tissues. 

_ Welcome to my Game, Sarah. Do you think Biltmore is smarter than me? _

The detective bagged the finger, rushing it off to be processed. Tyche stood beside Reid studying the message. 

“Judging by the handwriting, we’re looking for a male, aged 45-50. He’s using a fountain pen and what looks like Oxblood ink. Fine nib,” Tyche said, “and left handed.” 

“I’d concur,” Spencer said studying the note, “but this is a different message than Dr. Petrov sends in the book.” 

Tyche looked back at the note, trying to remember how the Inkwell villain had taunted her hero. She pulled her lip between her teeth again, one of her hands reached back and fiddled with the claw holding her hair in place. Strands began escaping,giving her a harried motherly appearance. Then it hit her. 

“The first note, in the book, Dr. Petrov wasn’t bragging.  _ Dearest Biltmore, it's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. My next package will begin our game.  _ Dr. Petrov never bragged, or addressed Sarah. He was a my,” Tyche mused.

“In the book the murderer addresses Biltmore, but here the unsub is addressing Sarah,” Spencer said, “but the envelope was addressed to you.” 

Spencer licked his lips, looking between the crime scene photos and the note. “Ms. Stuart, can you take a look at the crime scene photos? Call out any differences between the way you wrote it and the way the unsub executed it.”

“Please call me Tyche. Ms. Stuart reminds me too much of grad school. And, wouldn’t you be better at spotting the difference Dr. Reid,” Tyche asked, a questioning smirk darting across her features. Reid screwed his face in confusion. 

“It’s Spencer, or just Reid,” he said quietly. 

“You seem to know my books. Didn’t peg you as a mystery reader,”Tyche said, turning her attention to the crime scene photos. 

He found a blank space of white board, a marker poised in his fingers ready to write. “I bought them all when we were called in. Only made it through the first six books on the drive,” Spencer explained, “And it's your work. You might notice extra details that I wouldn’t.” 

Tyche gulped her coffee while staring at the photos on the board. The first crime scene was hard. She never read her books once they were finished, and she’d written The Veteran nearly a decade prior. Her publisher had a continuity person who kept track of all the details. 

“I don’t have an eidetic memory, but at first glance- the body positioning is wrong. Col. Sherman was slumped over his desk, with the knife embedded in between the 4th and 5th ribs on the left side. In the crime scene photos, the knife is embedded between 4 and 5, but in the back. The knife is wrong, but I expect that a WWI german trench knife is slightly hard to come by these days,” Tyche said. 

“Actually WWI trench knives, especially german ones, are fairly common. You can find them at pretty much every gun show in the United States,” Spencer said, writing the wrong knife on the board. 

“Ok, so why deviate from that if the unsub could procure the correct knife,” Tyche asked looking over the photos again, “Especially when he paid so much attention to the clothes and the desk setup. Down the writing on the page the victim is slumped over.” 

She looked at the second crime scene. The hunting accident murder was easier to copy. It had been loosely based on one of her favorite Murder She Wrote episodes. 

“Murder 2, the unsub clearly couldn’t recreate a hunt club. It would have been too risky to involve other people, they used a stuffed animal in place of a real horse and dog. The victim is dressed and posed correctly. The shotgun blast to the face isn’t right, may suggest that the victim and the unsub knew each other,” Tyche offered.

Spencer continued to make notes as Tyche looked over the other four crime scenes, each successive scene closer to the book’s description than the previous ones. 

“It's strange,” Tyche said, turning to face the lanky profiler as they finished the inkwell scene. They hadn’t been able to determine from the crime scene photos who the mailed finger belonged to. Logic dictated the finger should be from the sixth victim. Reid turned around to face her, marker twirling around his fingers. “Looking at all these scenes, it's like the unsub hasn’t read the older books as much as the most recent ones. Wouldn’t a crazed fan know every detail by heart? I’ve seen fansites for Biltmore that go more in depth into details I didn’t even realize I’d written.” 

“Interesting point. It's possible that the unsub was a reader of your work, but didn’t become a fan until after their stressor,” Reid suggested, “What are the murders in the next two books?” 

Tyche closed her eyes remembering the two novels she’d written last year. “Remembrance Day has the mayor of a small town being suffocated with his necktie in the parish church. Sarah Investigates… Oh.” 

“What happens in Sarah Investigates,” Spencer pressed. 

“Biltmore is stuck in his house recuperating after being shot at the end of Remembrance Day, and a woman arrives begging for his help to find her lost son. Sarah, his secretary/assistant, takes on the investigative legwork like Archie in the Nero Wolfe stories. She’s killed at the end of the book,” Tyche explained. 

“Oh,” Spencer said, pulling out his phone, “Hotch, I think we’ve got something. The unsub is recreating the murders from Tyche’s books, but their recreations of the murders aren’t perfect. So they probably only latched onto Tyche’s books recently. And, there's a possibility the unsub will try to go after Tyche as the final victim. Yeah, I’ll ask Garcia to cross check the purchases for the crime scene items with recent signups on Biltmore fan pages.” 

He hung up and almost immediately dialed another number, “Garcia.” 

“Hey there Boy Genius. Is Miss Bestseller as amazing in person as her books,” Garcia asked excitedly. Spencer could hear her rolling around her office from screen to screen. 

“I wouldn’t know,” he said honestly. Garcia squealed in his ear, “You like her!” 

“Garcia, focus. I’m going to send you a list of items that the unsub may have purchased in the last few weeks. Can you cross reference that list with recent sign-ups for the Biltmore Mystery and Tyche Stuart fan clubs?” 

“Send it over and I’ll do what I can. Garcia out,” Garcia said ending the call. 

Tyche opened the claw holding her hair, allowing her hair to tumble to her shoulders. Reid watched as she ran one hand through her hair. She was nothing like he had expected. Gideon had talked about her as if she was a female sherlock holmes, the perfect FBI agent. The woman in front of him didn’t fit that image. She looked like any woman you would see on the street, brown hair, brown eyes, an average figure. He could tell she’d dressed in a hurry, the tank top and jeans showed signs of having been worn multiple times and not washed. Her stance was decidedly different. Even though she showed signs of sleep deprivation, she stood stock still, back straight. She hadn’t shyed away from the crime scene photos, or the thought that the unsub might come after her at the final victim. He was even surprised by her insights. He hadn’t expected her to offer them, just focus on what she’d been brought to the station to do and get the hell out. 

“Oh, what’s that smell,” JJ asked reentering the conference room, her wrist to her nose. 

“Severed finger in the fanmail,” Tyche offered as she swept her hair back up and into the claw.

“Just remember to breathe normally JJ. Smell is our weakest sense. You’ll go noseblind in a few minutes,” Reid offered. 

‘That’s a whole lot easier said than done Spence,” she said, “Did you find anything else?” 

Spence nodded, “Tyche and I have noted a number of differences between her books and the crime scenes. Garcia is working on getting us a list of people who purchased items needed for the crime and her fan clubs. We also determined that the unsub is a relatively new fan, and they’re possibly building to killing Tyche.” 

“Well the media are all over this case. Someone leaked the similarities between the murders and Tyche’s books. They’ve all shot to the top of the bestseller list,” JJ said. 

Tyche sighed heavily, twisting her hair up and clipping it back into place at the back of her head. If the books were selling amazingly well, her publisher would be down her throat for another installment. She needed a break from Biltmore and his world. 

The phone in the middle of the conference table rang, Reid picked it up almost immediately. 

“Reid,” a voice called. 

“Prentiss, you’re on speaker phone. Tyche and JJ are with me,” he answered. 

“We just finished up with the Lewis family. Patricia was part of a Biltmore fan group that did LARPs in and around the DC,” Prentiss said. Tyche chuckled as she watched Reid’s brow furrow. 

“Live action role play,” she offered, “Did Patricia have issues with any member of the group? Anyone leave the group recently?” JJ’s jaw dropped open a bit. 

“They weren’t sure. She didn’t really talk about the group. All they knew was that letters would come to house sporadically. There was a stack of letters in her room and a fountain pen,” Prentiss answered. 

Reid and Tyche shot each other looks over the conference phone. “Was there a bottle of oxblood ink in Patricia’s room?” Reid asked. 

“How did you know that,” Prentiss asked. 

“There was a finger with a message in the fan mail,” Reid said. 

“We expected that the unsub would make contact, but a finger,” Prentiss asked. 

“Its part of the story. Biltmore is chasing a series killer around London during the blitz. The killer taunts Biltmore by sending pieces of his victims wrapped in letters. The oxblood ink is part of the killer’s signature,” Tyche explained. 

JJ’s phone started ringing. She picked up, stepping away from the conference line. 

“Agent Jareau,” she said. “Where?... Thank you.” 

She turned back to the team. “We have another body, a local priest found a body while he was preparing for morning mass.” 

“Rossi and I will head over there. Let you know if we find anything,” Prentiss said. 

“Prentiss,” Tyche said, stopping the woman from hanging up, “Look for two things at the crime scene, a purple silk tie and a single thistle bud. There may also be a note from the unsub, but I can’t be certain,” Tyche said. 

“Thank you Ms. Stuart,” Prentiss said. 

“It’s Tyche,” she called as Prentiss hung up. 

“What was that about a note,” Reid asked looking over at Tyche. 

She took a deep breath, rubbing small circles in her temples. 

“When I started writing Biltmore, I wanted to add an overarching storyline that was always happening in the background. Like a series of Easter eggs for people to find when they reread the series. In Remembrance Day, the book the church murder is from, I wrote in a seemly innocuous letter; that Biltmore finds left in an offering box. He takes it, but never reveals the contents to the reader,” Tyche explained. 

“Is it possible that the unsub is trying to play out some fantasy associated with your bread crumbs,” JJ asked. 

“I can’t be sure,” Tyche said, “Like I said I planned the breadcrumbs years ago. I’d have to look over my notes. Which are sitting in my apartment.” She looked pointedly at JJ and Reid. 

“If they’re on your computer we can have Garcia access them remotely,” JJ offered. 

“Sorry Agent. My original notes are hard copy only. I’ve never been a fan of digitization, and my more tech savvy fans keep trying to hack me,” Tyche said, “They’ve in my apartment.” 

JJ nodded, calling Hotch on the conference room’s phone. “Hotch, it’s JJ. We may have something. Reid and I are going to take Tyche back to her apartment to get some things.” she said. 

“Keep me posted, and keep Tyche safe. With this new murder the chance this unsub will be coming after her is high,” Hotch said hanging up. 

“Yay, field trip,” Tyche said sarcastically, “who wants to see where the reclusive writer lives?” 

JJ shook her head reaching for the keys on the table. Reid gave Tyche a goofy smile holding the door for her as they left the conference room.

**

The ride through Arlington was quite peaceful considering. JJ drove, focused on the streets filled with the morning rush hour. Reid was sitting up front in the passenger seat while Tyche nursed a second cup of coffee watching the streets roll by. 

“Tyche is an unusual name. Greek Goddess of fortune and prosperity. Her parentage varies based on which version of the mythology you read,” Reid said trying to break the silence. 

“My mother teaches classical civilizations at William and Mary,” Tyche said quietly, “And she prefers the mythos that Tyche is Aphrodite and Hermes’ child.” 

Spencer glanced back at Tyche in the rear view. “I thought you were a Virginia Tech graduate,” he said trying to pull her off the obviously unhappy memory. 

“Yeah. Mom and Dad both taught at William and Mary. Broke my mom's heart that I refused to attend the school I had literally grown up at, but she was happy I didn’t choose UVA,” Tyche said, brightening up a bit. 

“Why would UVA be a bad thing? Isn’t it ranked as one of the top schools in the country,” JJ asked looking over at Spencer. 

“University of Virginia is consistently ranked in the top 30 universities in the country according to US News. William and Mary is also consistently ranked in the top 50. Virginia Tech is normally in the top 100. However, there is a rivalry between UVA and William and Mary over Thomas Jefferson. He was a student at William and Mary from 1760-1762, and took a loan from the university in his later years to help pay some debts. However, he died without ever repaying. William and Mary holds UVA responsible for the debt,” Spencer said, starting to ramble. 

“In 1992, UVA’s President thought he could repay the debt to William and Mary by donating a statue of Jefferson, but on the condition that statue faced UVA. To spite him, William and Mary made the statue face a girls bathroom,”Tyche finished for him, “I remember when they put that statue up. It took students about 30 minutes to figure out that TJ was looking at a girls bathroom.” 

Spencer opened and closed his mouth several times trying to think of something witty to say. 

“Sorry if I stole your thunder,” Tyche said, taking another long drink of coffee. 

“No thunder stolen,” Spencer said, “What does your father teach?” He reflexively licked his lips. Tyche pulled her lower lip between her teeth again, chewing her lip. 

“Psychology,” she said. 

JJ pulled up in front of Tyche’s building. 

As they got out, Spencer surveyed the area. “Considering your books are all bestsellers, I’m surprised you live in this part of Arlington,” he said. 

Tyche glanced at Reid, a smirk on her lips, “This is a short term lease. I needed a change of scenery,” she said, “My actual house is in Stafford.” 

“Writer's block that bad huh,” Spencer asked bluntly.

Tyche shot a glare over her shoulder as she walked into the building and to the elevator. 

“What floor are you on,” JJ asked as she and Spencer joined Tyche in the lobby. 

“Five,” Tyche said focusing on the elevator doors 

“I’ll meet you guys up there,” Spencer said looking for the stairs. 

“Afraid of enclosed spaces, Dr. Reid” Tyche called after him. JJ rolled her eyes. 

The elevator dinged softly, its chrome doors sliding open for JJ and Tyche. 

“I’m not sure if you remember, but we were actually at the academy together,” JJ said glancing over at Tyche. 

“Honestly, I’ve kind of blacked out most of my academy days,” Tyche said, her gaze focused on the ceiling. JJ looked over the writer again. She had heard stories from Gideon and Hotch about this woman. She wasn’t certain this woman was the same one that Gideon had hand selected to replace him. 

The elevator doors slid open, and Tyche led the way to her apartment. Spencer was already standing out front. 

“Did you take the stairs two at a time or something Shaggy” Tyche asked, unlocking the door. 

Spencer’s brow furrowed at the nickname. He had been called a lot of things in his lifetime, but never Shaggy.

With daylight now streaming through the window, the apartment looked like even more of a mess than she remembered when she’d fallen into bed in the wee hours of the morning. Books lay open on every available surface. The take out boxes from her dinner of mapo tofu lay forgotten on the bartop along with the half empty bottle of Talisker. 

“Just make yourselves at home. I’m going to change and see if I can find my old notebooks,” Tyche said. 

JJ and Reid smirked at each other as Tyche disappeared into her bedroom. 

“She’s definitely an interesting one, ”JJ said. 

“Most definitely,” Spencer said surveying the main living area, “She’s definitely experiencing serious writer's blocks. Probably stemming from her wanting to write something other than a Biltmore mystery. If what she said about Book 8 is anything to go by, she meant that one to be the last installment.” 

“Did you notice how she avoided talking about her parents,” JJ asked quietly. Spencer nodded. 

“No family pictures on the walls. Could be that with the short lease she didn’t see the point? But, based on that and from what she said in the car she’s probably estranged from her parents,” Spencer added. 

“I thought Gideon had a moratorium on profiling team members,” Tyche said. She’d changed into a clean pair of jeans, a tunic length red flannel and her leather jacket . Her hair remained flipped up into the hair claw. 

“You’re not part of the team. A profiling you may help us figure out why the unsub latched on to you,” Spencer said. 

Tyche picked her way across the living area carefully, trying not to disturb her research. The small Ikea desk under the window was covered in paper, a small stack of journals in the upper right hand corner. She grabbed the full stack before carefully returning to JJ and Reid. 

“These are all my story notes,” Tyche said, “Unless you’d like to speculate further about the timeline for Biltmore Book 9 or my relationship with my mother, I’d really like to head back to the station.”

Tyche stepped out of the apartment waiting patiently for Reid and JJ to follow. The pair stepped out and in turn waited for Tyche to lock the door prior heading back for the SUV. 

**

The team was busy in the conference room when the trio returned. Hotch and Rossi stood at one board talking over something. Prentiss and Morgan were bent over conference phone, probably talking to the yet unseen Garcia. 

Rossi turned to meet the trio’s eyes. 

“Was there a note hidden at the latest crime scene,” Tyche asked, dropping her notebooks on the conference table. 

Rossi pulled an evidence bag from one of the boards. “We found it sitting on the pulpit. Unsub didn’t try to hide it.” 

Tyche chewed her lip, taking a seat and starting to flip through her notebooks. Spencer beelined to Rossi to look over the note. 

_ To see my might, you must first see my flight. Go back to the beginning and maybe you’ll see my plight.  _

“Whoever wrote this note definitely sent the finger too,” Spencer said, holding the page to the light, “and this confirms the messages are meant for Tyche. Or at least another really rabid fan. Tyche, did you intend for anything to be written in the note that Biltmore recovers from the church?” 

It was times like these that she wondered if digitizing her notes was the answer. She’d always be able to CTRL +F what she needed. 

“Working on it, Shaggy. Not all of us have eidetic memories,” Tyche said, flipping a little faster. 

Morgan and Prentiss looked up from their notes to Reid. “Shaggy,” Prentis mouthed. 

Tyche pulled the second notebook toward herself, opening to the first page and shutting itl. She pulled the next notebook over. She opened it and discarded it. Tyche reached for the last notebook, her hands shaking ever so slightly. She said a prayer to whatever god was listening. 

Spencer was focused on her. Something was wrong. She opened the last of her notebooks and started flipping. 

“Something wrong,” he asked. 

“My notes on the Easter eggs are missing,” Tyche said. The team shared a collective look. Things just went from bad to worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray Chapter 2! Just as a heads up- I'm a slow writer and working on a story like this will make me even slower. I promise that I'm working on the next chapters, just bear with me.   
> Also comments are always appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, this is my first criminal minds fic so please be kind. There is a long term plan for the story, but it may be a little bit between updates. I hope y'all like it and I'll do my best to update on a semi-regular basis.


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